


Jeeves and the Dream That Dogs

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Dream Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Wet & Messy, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeeves is having some rather rummy recurring dreams. For <a href="http://dodificus.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://dodificus.livejournal.com/"><b>dodificus</b></a> who requested a fic based on <a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/ironicbees/pic/0007ywx9/g2">this beautiful picture</a> by <a href="http://ironicbees.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://ironicbees.livejournal.com/"><b>ironicbees</b></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Dream That Dogs

Title: Jeeves and the Dream That Dogs  
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster  
Rating: NC17  
Length: 5800  
Warnings: angst, Jeeves POV, light bondage, slightly messy (as in sticky) sex acts  
Summary: Jeeves is having some rather rummy recurring dreams. For [](http://dodificus.livejournal.com/profile)[**dodificus**](http://dodificus.livejournal.com/) who requested a fic based on [this beautiful picture](http://pics.livejournal.com/ironicbees/pic/0007ywx9/g2) by [](http://ironicbees.livejournal.com/profile)[**ironicbees**](http://ironicbees.livejournal.com/).

<><><>

It first came to me in a dream.

I am normally given to soundless, motionless, dreamless sleep. Due to my varied schedule, I have long since learned to make due with four or five hours of rest a night, and it is my personal belief that my mind must shut down completely while I am in bed or else I would go mad. My acquaintances who practise in the medical field tell me this notion is false. “We all dream, Reginald,” an old friend once told me. “Some of us merely forget upon waking.”

I, however, did not forget this.

The dream was vivid, filled with bright colours and familiar sounds. I enter the flat as I always do, the door creaking shut behind me in its usual cadence. I call out to my master, not knowing if he was home or gone. I receive in answer his strained voice, crying out to me.

I rush to his boudoir, fearing for his safety. The hallway is longer or perhaps darker than it should have been, and for a moment it looks as if it had been stitched together with the hallway that led to my childhood bedroom, but I reach my master's room at last.

He is sitting astride a gold cushioned seat which, in reality, resides in the _salle de bain_ for my master to sit and comb his hair in front of the mirror. My master is naked and facing the wall, his bare back exposed to me. The thin skin at his elbows and knees is flushed as if in shame or excitement, and his wrists are bound behind his back with a sky-blue necktie the likes of which have never haunted his wardrobe.

In the dream, Mr Wooster turns his head to look at me over his shoulder. His gaze is pleading, yet he says nothing. I watch myself from outside myself, as if I am in the audience of a motion picture house and Mr Wooster and I are actors on the screen. I approach him, and it is unclear how he came to be bound. Is there a thief in the house who has done this to him? Though I am detached from the story unfolding before me, my heart aches with worry for Mr Wooster as if I were really there.

“Are you hurt, sir?” asks the Jeeves on the screen. He touches Mr Wooster's brow, his fair hair, but there appears to be no injury.

“Jeeves,” my master begs in a choked voice, “ _please_.”

“Sir, I am here.” That Jeeves looks up, looks directly at me, and straddles the cushioned seat before Mr Wooster. He bends to press a kiss to my master's pinked cheek. “You are safe.” He kisses his ear. “All will be well.” Then, with one final glare in my direction, my other self feasts on Mr Wooster's bare flesh, licking and kissing his neck and chest, pulling shocked gasps from my young master's throat with nips and bites. My view is still only that of Mr Wooster's back (the camera will not shift) but I feel the same burning in my blood that my stand-in must be enduring.

Mr Wooster cries out, his head thrown back, his spine curving like a bow.

And then I awoke. My skin was damp with sweat and the air in my small room was suffocating. I kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and became congisant of my cock, hard and weeping on my belly. I clenched my fists in the bedsheets and repeatedly told myself it had not been real, all while attempting to catch my breath. Men may dream all manner of things, I assured myself. It did not necessitate a literal interpretation.

I had at that time been studying some of Freud and Jung's differing theories on dreams, and no doubt my reading had prompted my brain into imagining the same sort of bizarre happenings as detailed in their works. The blue tie surely represented something pastoral and outdoors to me. The initial mix-up of hallways pointed to a need to meditate on my past. The act of making love to Mr Wooster was probably a metaphor for how involved in his daily affairs I had become as of late, taking even the literal role of the wife in my dream. Certainly my subconscious only meant to inform me that I was working too hard. I was due for a holiday.

As my breathing calmed, I took my cockstand in hand and brought myself off as quickly as possible, and if the vestiges of my dream pursued me through my climax, then it was only my tired mind turning over a very strange problem, nothing more.

You would be correct in imagining that this dream, once dreamt, dogged me. Night after night, the same vision came to me: Mr Wooster, seated with his back to me, his wrists tied tight with that same blue tie. His skin painted with blushes, his eyes pleading, his voice saying only “Please, Jeeves, please.” I began dreading sleep, for I knew that as soon as I fell under the cloak of Morpheus, I would be jolted awake by a longing in my heart and in my loins that I had never experienced in my waking hours. And I could do nothing to stop it. I tried taking knock-out pills or having a drink before bed, but the same dream came no matter what I did. For me, a man used to exerting his will over each and every detail of his life, this helplessness was intolerable. I resorted to staying awake as long as possible to keep the dreams at bay. I would read, write long diary entries, tackle small tasks like darning and sewing (which I abhorred), anything to keep myself from bed.

Soon, my lack of sleep became apparent. Mr Wooster even mentioned it to me one morning; I had slept only twenty minutes at my writing desk the previous night. The dream had plagued me even then, and I was jolted into unhappy wakefulness.

“Jeeves,” Mr Wooster said as he sipped his tea, “normally you are the picture of _sangfroid_ but today I detect neither _sang_ nor _froid_ on your countenance. What of your healthy Viking spirit, Jeeves? Has it deserted you?”

“I apologise, sir.” I managed a glance at myself in the full-length mirror and saw that he was indeed correct. I did not look well. “Perhaps it is owing to the weather, sir. I will be better directly.”

Since the dreams had started, I found it difficult to meet Mr Wooster's gaze without picturing him naked, tied up, and waiting for me. Such a thing happened now as I looked down at my master, who was finishing the last of his tea.

“Perhaps you're in need of a holiday,” he said, as if he could read my mind and know my own conclusions about my dreams. I may have been somewhat startled, as Mr Wooster had never before suggested a holiday for me. My annual leave was something of a chore for him, and I knew he looked forward to it with dread. The depth of his worry illustrated how dire the situation was.

“Thank you for your concern, sir, but I will be in better spirits after my morning coffee.” And I departed with a bow.

I began using my time spent awake in the small hours of the night to sketch the dream that brought me so much consternation. I had been a passable wielder of the pencil and pastels when I was a boy, and the task of honing these long-forgotten skills was soothing. I also hoped that by setting down my visions on paper, they would become more controllable and less insurmountable. Perhaps I would remember some detail which would be the key to solving the recurring dream.

I first drew the scene in pencil, just a few rough sketches of how Mr Wooster appeared sitting on that cushion with his back to the viewer. Then I began filling in the details with an old set of pastels: the standing lamp in the corner, the whorls of the fabric on the furniture, the curls on Mr Wooster's bowed head, the brilliant blue of the tie at his wrists. At last, with a modicum of guilt, I drew myself on the seat with Mr Wooster, clothed in my shirtsleeves, my hands caressing his body, my face nearly hidden in the crook of his neck.

I looked at the picture I'd created and felt myself hardening. My memory supplied how Mr Wooster's gasping breaths would sound against my ear, how soft the skin of his back would be, the scratchiness of the cushioned seat, the warmth of his body. The drawings only made the dreams more vivid and my need sharper. I put the drawings in my desk drawer and promised myself never to look at them again.

After that incident, I attempted to bring my dreams under control via a technique called “lucid dreaming.” In essence, the theory states that an astute and mentally disciplined man can recognise his dreams as false reality and command the visions to do what he wishes. It is a tactic used by psychologists to control nightmares and recurring dreams in their patients. I read several tracts on the subject before slipping between my bedsheets, ready to face my cursed dreams.

The dream began as it always did, and despite my waking resolve to become lucid during its events, the sound of Mr Wooster's pained cry forced my dream-self to run to his aid once more. It was only when I'd reached the room and seen his nude, blushing, bound form that I remembered this was not real. I drew myself up and repeated the mantra I had made for myself: “I am Reginald Jeeves, this is my dream, and I am in control of it.”

The vision of Mr Wooster looked over his shoulder at me. “Jeeves?”

“I know you're not real,” I stated. “I need to know why you have been bound as you are. Who has done this to you?”

For the first time in my dreams, Mr Wooster rose and faced me. I now saw he was aroused, painfully so; his cock was red and leaking fluid against his stomach. “You did, Jeeves,” he said, his face a blank mask. “You tied me up in this fashion.”

I could feel my control slipping from me; the dream was carrying me away. But I stood firm.

“No. No, I did not do this,” I said. “I came home to find you this way.”

“Jeeves.” Mr Wooster was suddenly standing very near to me. “Don't you even know your own mind?” His gaze hovered over my lips.

“I suppose I do not,” I whispered.

“You bound me to you, Jeeves.” He kissed my mouth softly. “You know I've fallen in love with you.”

“I do?” He lips had tasted so wonderful, I was having difficulty concentrating. “You have?”

“You know I've fallen in love with you,” he repeated. “And what's more, you would love me as well, if you allowed yourself.”

I shook my head. “No, none of this is true. It cannot be true.”

“Throws a wrench in those plans of yours, what?” Mr Wooster cocked his head to the side. “Staying away from men, keeping out of trouble? Being a life-long valet so no one wonders why you haven't married? Indulging in a spot of buggery once a year while on holiday, far away from home?”

I flushed, shamed, and turned away. “Stop it. Stop speaking like this.”

“You could go on holiday and find this year's piece of flesh, Jeeves, but it won't help matters. I'll still be here when you get home.”

“Stop!”

“You were the one who wanted to get to the bottom of this,” Mr Wooster said. “Don't kick just because you don't like the answer.”

“Leave me alone!” I screamed, losing all control over the dream, my emotions, everything. Black snakes encircled my ankles and pulled me down into a deep pit. I felt myself falling, my stomach leaping as it does when a lift comes to an abrupt halt.

And then I was awake and Mr Wooster was standing over me in his dressing gown.

“Good Lord, Jeeves,” he said with feeling. His eyes were wide and fear-filled, and his hands were clasped to my shoulders. “That must have been one rum dream. I heard you shouting and thought someone was murdering you in your sleep.”

It took all my self control to compose myself as best I could. I opened my mouth with the intention of saying “I am sorry for the outburst, sir,” but all I could manage was a weak “I— I'm—“

“Shush now,” my master said gently. “You're shaking like a leaf. Do you want me to get you a glass of something? Water? Warm milk? Whiskey?”

I blinked. “Will you be wearing the bowler hat and pinstriped trousers in the morning as well, sir?”

Mr Wooster laughed long and loud. “Oh Jeeves! I should wake you in the middle of the night more often. You're positively hilarious like this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“One wouldn't think you had it in you.”

“One tries, sir.”

“Well.” My master cast his gaze about my chamber. “Well, well, well.”

It occurred to me that Mr Wooster had never been in my lair, as he calls it, since I entered his employ. I wondered what he saw of me in that room. Suddenly the small tokens and framed photographs of my family members that lined the walls seemed embarrassing to me, as if my master were seeing me in the nude.

“Thank you for coming to my aid, sir,” I said at last, “but it was only a dream.”

“You're sure you'll be all right, then?” he asked, already edging toward the door.

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Jeeves.” He closed the door quietly behind himself.

I forced myself to settle back on my pillow and close my eyes, though when sleep returned to me, I was restless and uncomfortable, the edges of my nightmare still terrorising me. In my twilight sleep, I thought I felt a warm hand on my sweat-slicked brow and a gentle voice guiding me into a restful state, but I was convinced it was just another, less frightful dream. I needed sleep, and so I slept.

I awoke a few minutes later than normal, but I attributed the lapse to the uneasy night I'd had before finally succumbing to sleep. I sat up in bed, my bones creaking and my sore muscles protesting every move. I rubbed a hand over my eyes and then caught sight of my straight-backed chair, which usually sat before my writing desk, at my bedside. So Mr Wooster had been with me for some time last night. The thought made my stomach churn. How weak I must have appeared to him; a grown man frightened by a dream.

I rose and was gathering my day's clothing when I noticed yet another unwelcome sight: my desk drawer, slightly open. I always ensured drawers and cabinet doors were fully closed. Icy fear gripped me and made my blood run cold. Had my master opened the drawer and seen the obscene depictions of the two of us? I carefully opened the drawer. The final picture was still there, but it was not face down as I had left it.

I dropped my socks and underthings on the foot of my bed and slung my dressing gown over my shoulders. I had to set things right with Mr Wooster immediately, though how exactly I planned on doing so—

I reached his bedroom to find it empty. His bed was still unmade, and his wardrobe stood open. A swift count of his suitcoats told me that he had worn the charcoal wool. Where could he have gone at such an early hour? To be sure of his absence, I checked the other rooms, but he was nowhere to be found.

My mind raced. Could Mr Wooster be at the police station, alerting them to the damning evidence in my desk? Could he be at The Agency, ordering them to blacklist me? Had he merely fled the flat, fearing for his safety, with no goal in mind? It didn't seem to matter. I was finished.

Numbness stole over me. I mechanically bathed and dressed in my uniform as usual, then set about my morning chores, thinking all the while that it would be the last time I performed them for my master. I was determined, however, to meet my fate like a man. When Mr Wooster returned home, whether it was with the police in tow or not, the flat would be fastidiously ordered as always.

I was dusting one final picture frame when I heard a key scrape in the front door's lock. I steeled myself and strode forward to receive my master.

“Good morning, sir,” I said as I entered the foyer, my voice as level as possible. “Will you be taking breakfast now or shall I prepare a repast later?”

Mr Wooster stepped inside and looked up at me with wide eyes. My master is not well-versed in concealing his emotions and one can often read his every thought with just a glance at his face. At that moment, I saw clearly that he had seen the drawings in my desk and any sliver of hope I had held that he had not was dashed.

“Oh, hullo Jeeves,” he said. His nervousness was palpable but he handed me his hat and stick as if nothing was amiss. “Erm, let's forget breakfast for the mo', what?”

“Very good, sir.” I hung his hat and placed his stick in the hall closet with misery in my heart, for surely he was about to demand my resignation now. “May I take your coat, sir?” I asked. I normally would have performed the task without the query, but I considered that my master might not appreciate my hands on his person, knowing what he knew.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mr Wooster turned and allowed me to slip the overcoat from his shoulders. I cleared my throat as I did so.

“Sir, please allow me to touch on the events of last night,” I began. “I feel I should make clear—“

And I would have continued my impassioned defence, but at that moment, Mr Wooster turned to face me once more and I saw, knotted at his throat, a bright sky-blue necktie. It was the exact shade as the one I had drawn, the exact shade as I had dreamt.

I must have been staring for no small amount of time, because my master eventually fiddled with the article of clothing and said, “Oh, this? Bought it this morning while ankling round the metrop. Couldn't get back to sleep, so I took myself on a bit of a jaunt.” He finally looked me in the eye, his resolve now visible on his handsome face. “Do you like it, Jeeves?”

I was not certain what to say. I had been prepared for a constable's questions or to be thrown out on the street; I was not expecting this, whatever this was. Faced with Mr Wooster and his new neckwear, I was struck silent.

My master dropped his gaze and fidgeted with one of his cuff-links.

“Jeeves,” he said in such a quiet voice I had to strain my ears to hear every word, “I'm going to my room. If you would like to follow me, do so. If you'd rather not, I won't take it hard.”

And he left me in the foyer, still holding his overcoat.

To say I was awash in confusion would be an understatement. My dreams had already revealed to me that which I had refused to acknowledge: I was attracted to my employer, held tender feelings in my heart for him, and suspected he felt the same. But I had had no time to come to terms with these revelations. To know that Mr Wooster had (and in such a short amount of time) shook me to the core.

This complicated things greatly. If I followed Mr Wooster to his bedroom, the sheer amount of new problems I would face boggled the mind. This would be no casual dalliance with a stranger while on holiday. This was my employer with whom I shared a home and a life. It would take even my mental faculties days to puzzle out each nuance.

I looked down at the overcoat in my hands. It smelled faintly of his aftershave. I loved that scent. Somehow, that decided it for me.

I hung the coat and made my way down the hall. The door to Mr Wooster's bedroom was shut, and I listened at it, hearing the snick of a cigarette lighter and a quiet mumble from within.

I knocked.

“Come in!” Mr Wooster called, high-pitched and surprised.

I opened the door to find my master in his shirtsleeves, perched on the cushioned seat that he must have moved from the bathroom. He stood when I entered and crushed his cigarette in an ashtray.

“Jeeves,” he said, smiling expectantly at me.

“Sir.” Emboldened, I slid my morning coat from my shoulders and folded it over the arm of a chair in the corner. The catch in Mr Wooster's breath was audible from across the room.

“I, well, I was starting to think you wouldn't come,” he said.

“My apologies, sir. It is a lot to take in.”

“I suppose so, yes.” Mr Wooster took a step closer, his arms crossed over his chest, a familiar gesture for him when he wished to control his restless limbs. “Jeeves, I hope you don't think me a horrible blighter who goes through your desk drawers all the time. It was an accident, seeing that picture. But I'm glad I did. See it, I mean.”

“Indeed, sir?”

He waved a hand through the air as if brushing away a fly of an idea. “Of course. If you must know, I had been sitting at your bedside, convinced I could help somehow if your nightmares returned. I was watching you sleep for a goodish few minutes, and call me a strange bird if you must, but I felt the sudden urge to write. You know how it is with me, Jeeves. I start getting ideas and I reach for the nearest pencil or pen. That's what I was doing digging through your desk.” My master regarded me with an appraising eye, and I wondered what ideas my sleeping form had inspired in him. “I never took you for an artistic type, Jeeves. Took me a few moments to realise it was you who'd done it.”

“I never meant for you to find it, sir,” I confessed. “I've been having recurring dreams; they keep me up at night. I only sketched what I dreamt as a therapeutic measure.”

“Did it work?”

“No, sir.”

“You still dreamt those fruity dreams?”

“They were persistent, sir. I laid aside the picture intending never to look upon it again.”

Mr Wooster took another step toward me, his eyes filled with wonder. “Why didn't you burn it, Jeeves?”

We were now standing intimately close to one another. The sensation of being on a knife's edge struck me.

“I suppose some part of me wanted you to find it, sir,” I said quietly.

Very gently, my master placed his hands at my waist and rested his brow on my shoulder. I brought my arms round him as well, and we stood there in silence for a moment, our shallow breathing loud in the room.

“Will you make love to me, Jeeves? Just like in the picture?” he finally said against my lapel.

I swallowed twice before I found my voice. “Yes.”

“You're shaking,” Mr Wooster pointed out.

“It appears we both are, sir,” I countered. Never in my life had I indulged in carnal pleasure that was bound up in tender emotions. My experiences heretofore had been limited to simple intercourse with acquaintances or strangers; I could not have dreamed of the effect that love, real, soul-deep love, had on me.

“You're frightened?” He lifted his head, and his lips hovered just a breath away from mine. The slightest movement would bring our mouths together, yet I hesitated.

“Intensely,” I whispered.

My master's nose brushed against my cheek, and my heart hammered in my chest at the thought of our first kiss, that first forbidden touch. I nearly wished the anticipation could go on forever, not only due to the fear I had for what the future held, but also the sweetness of Mr Wooster's body pressed trustingly against me.

Mr Wooster must have sensed my desire to prolong the inevitable pleasure, for he danced away from my embrace and wagged a finger at me. “You must remain clothed, remember. I quite liked the look of that, you in your shirtsleeves and I in the altogether.”

“It is a pleasing contrast,” I agreed.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat and discarded the article on the foot of his bed. “Will you hold this for me, Jeeves?” he said, smirking, and slipped the blue necktie from his throat with a flourish.

“Certainly, sir.” I took the tie in both my hands and watched as my employer disrobed. When he was at last naked, he turned around and crossed his wrists behind his back, his head bowed slightly.

I approached, but again hesitated. His wrists were so delicate, and when I lifted my hands to apply the necktie, the largeness and roughness of my hands compared to those of my master made me uneasy. “Sir—“

“I trust you, Jeeves,” he interrupted, looking over his shoulder at me, “even if you don't trust yourself.”

I contemplated this, then nodded. The blue silk of the necktie wound round his wrists until I could bind it snugly.

“Is that at all uncomfortable, sir?” I asked, my breath brushing the back of his bare neck.

He tested the bindings. “Not a bit.”

Then and only then did I move to stand before Mr Wooster and drink in the sight of his naked body, flushed becomingly in all the appropriate places. He is a gentleman of a reedy build, thin as a whippet and possessed of the same nervous energy. His clear blue eyes gazed at me in a wordless plea, and his lips were parted and pink. There was a sprinkling of crisp hair on his chest, and a thin trail of the same led the way from his navel to his cockstand, which was as ready for me as in my dreams.

“You are more beautiful than I imagined,” I confided. I pulled him to me and took several steps backwards, guiding him along until we reached the cushioned seat. I straddled it and sat him down as well. “What manner of lovemaking shall I bestow upon you, sir? Only ask for my touch and you will have it.” I steadied him by enclosing him in my arms.

“Jeeves, _please_ ,” Mr Wooster begged, “kiss me.”

“Will you accept my kisses here?” I pressed my mouth to his temple, to his ear. “Perhaps here?” I kissed his neck, his graceful collarbone. “Where is it you want me to kiss you, sir?”

“Dash it, Jeeves! You know very well—“

“Here, perhaps?” I bent my head and licked at one of his pert, pink nipples. A howl of pleasure echoed in the room, followed by a low groan.

“Jeeves, you may continue kissing me where ever you like, but first you must kiss me properly!” Mr Wooster writhed in my arms.

“And why must I do that?” I asked, intoxicated by the effects of my teasing.

“Because I love you, you blighter, and I've been aching to kiss you for ages!” His playful wriggling did not stop, nor did the breathless joy leave his voice when he said this, but I was frozen by his declaration. The Bertram in my dreams had said he loved me, yes, but I admit I was not completely convinced it was the truth and not merely wishful thinking on my part. Mr Wooster noticed my shock and looked at me with concern lining his features. “Jeeves, do—?”

“'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,'” I whispered and kissed him soundly. My lips played over his for a blissful, long moment, and then Mr Wooster broke the kiss with a grin.

“Not your own, Jeeves?”

“I'm afraid not, sir.” My hands, hungry to feel his flesh, travelled over his smooth back, his panting flanks, his wiry arms. “I may be ill-equipped for original words with which to express myself, but please know that I do love you.”

The previous irreverence between us melted from the atmosphere, leaving Mr Wooster to look at me with seriousness mixed with fondness. “Touch me, Jeeves,” he directed in a quiet voice.

“With pleasure.” I pressed soft kisses to his chest, feasting on his body which he had gifted to me. He trembled in my grasp, and his breathing was reduced to small, whimpering noises. It might have been minutes or hours that I spent wordlessly exploring my new lover. With the mien of a scientist I applied my lips, teeth, tongue, and hands to all the beautiful parts of him, cataloging each effect. A kiss to his ear brought shivers; a stroke of my fingers behind his knee caused him to jump in surprise; a lave of my warm tongue against his nipple brought, as expected, the same ecstatic cry as before.

All this time, my own prick was straining against the flies of my trousers, harder than I'd ever been. I marvelled at the urgency of my need, the delicious spike-sharp feel of it in my chest, only to find that another taste of Mr Wooster, another whiff of his clean musky scent, would ratchet my desire yet another notch. An outsider looking at the tableau we presented on that cushioned seat might think that I was a tyrant, controlling and torturing Mr Wooster, but in reality he was the one torturing me.

“Jeeves, love, please.” Mr Wooster's hips were straining upward as if to meet my touch, and his cock brushed against my crisp shirtfront.

“Yes, of course.” I slid from my seat to kneel on the floor. With my hands grasping his buttocks, I moved my master to the very edge of the cushion, his hardness wagging wetly in front of my lips. I licked up his shaft and swallowed him down to the root.

“Oh Lord!” my master cried, arching into my mouth. From the urgency in his voice, I could see our lovemaking would not last much longer. Although I desperately wished to pleasure Mr Wooster for hours, days even, it was inevitable that we could not stay on the knife edge forever. My own need had reached the breaking point, and as I continued sucking and laving his cockhead, I unbuttoned my flies and took myself in my hand.

Mr Wooster must have noticed the movements of my hand on my cock, for he leant forward and hissed, “Yes, Jeeves, bring yourself off; I'm so close, so close.” And with a final shout of pleasure, his warm, salty fluid flooded my mouth.

I took a moment to lick him clean, steadying him with a hand on his hip as his body was shaking so violently with the effects of his orgasm. But still my cock wept in my hand, and my own end was fast approaching.

“Finish on me, Jeeves,” my master told me. “Paint me with your seed.”

“Where?” I growled, too far gone for anything more eloquent.

“It doesn't matter, just see to it.” He bent down to kiss me ferociously.

I stood, using a hand on his shoulder to balance myself, and gazed down at his gorgeous form: his spent cock still twitching, his chest heaving, his cheeks red, his bound arms struggling behind his back as if he was mad with desire to touch me. My other hand still pulled at my prick, and within seconds, I threw my head back and came off with a loud groan.

My release spattered against Mr Wooster's chest, dripping down his nipples, his pale skin, through the sparse, crisp hair there, to trail down his stomach in long streams. I stood back and took in the sight: my master, thoroughly debauched.

“Jeeves,” my master said, and his face was so unusually devoid of clues as to his thoughts that I worried that he regretted our tryst.

“Sir?” I asked, putting my flies to rights.

“Untie me.”

I stepped round and did so, bestowing the most gentle touches to his wrists as possible. They were reddened from his struggles, but did not appear inflamed. I was about to inquire as to his comfort when Mr Wooster spun round to face me. He lifted his now-free hand to the mess on his chest, collected a small amount of the milky fluid on a fingertip, and licked at it with his pink tongue.

“Oh, sir,” I breathed, already feeling a stirring in my loins again.

My master pronounced the taste to be very satisfactory and then launched himself into my arms. We fell back onto his still unmade bed in a tangle of limbs.

“Think of how awful it would have been if I'd never found that drawing of yours, Jeeves,” he mused after a long time spent presses kisses to my face. “We may have gone on for years, you loving and lusting for me, and I doing the same. For you, that is, not me.”

I trailed my fingers up and down his smooth flank. “I shudder to think how much time we've already wasted, sir.”

Mr Wooster fished a handkerchief from my trouser pocket and mopped the sticky seed from his front. “Jeeves, I know you probably want to talk about all sorts of complicated thingummies that we need to talk about now that we're more than master and man—“

“Undoubtedly, sir.”

“—but I would request we have a bit of a lie-down first. Can't tackle complicated whatsits when my brain's been turned to jelly, what?”

“I second the motion, sir.”

He undressed me then with the air of a man unwrapping a priceless treasure, and though I did not understand how he could possibly look at me in that fashion, it warmed me to the core. We settled under the sheets, held close in each other's arms.

“Sleep well, Jeeves,” my master whispered. “I love you.”

“And I you,” I said softly as I drifted into a wonderful dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

fin

 

>   
> 
> 
> I'm slowly but surely working through all the lovely requests people gave me for [a little charity drive I did](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/548520.html#cutid1). I'm writing them in no particular order, but I will get them all done, pinkie swear! And [](http://ironicbees.livejournal.com/profile)[**ironicbees**](http://ironicbees.livejournal.com/) , I hope you didn't mind me mucking about with your fanart. :3  
> 

  



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